I Promise You Walls
by Exiiona
Summary: There's no question that Ghost is the textbook definition of "mentally disturbed", and in fixing him, Soap discovers he may have to fix himself, too. M for later chapters. Slightly AU-ish.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: CoD isn't mine. Unedited, so forgive any spelling errors. If you'd be so kind. Thanks!

* * *

Anyone with at least one eye and a semi-functioning brain could tell that Ghost was not okay.

It wasn't so much of an in-the-moment sort of Not-Okay as it was a mentally Not-Okay. Ghost was a paranoid, trigger-happy psychopath. And it was clear to a more practised eye that it wasn't because he was just fucking insane, it was because he had some kind of deep-rooted psychological issues that he was keeping pent up- But then again, so did everyone in the One-Four-One.

But John notices the way that Ghost's hands shake during a debriefing or while he's trying to down a cup of coffee before they head off in the morning. His hands don't tremble when he's holding a rifle. They don't tremble when he's got blood seeping from one side of his head and refuses to seek medical attention because he doesn't "trust doctors". And they sure as hell don't tremble when he's threatening to clamp a cable to some poor sod's tongue. His hands only shake when he's at rest. When he has nothing else to do but talk and try to socialise between getting menial paperwork done.

Neither of them ever mention it- It's a recognised issue, of course, but John always figures it's none of his business whether or not his lieutenant gets fidgety when he's pent-up.

So it's not really a matter of privacy when John decides that the incessant thumping against the dividing wall between their rooms persists until 2am- It's personal business. And it's fucking annoying.

He tries the doorknob first, without knocking. The locks on the doors are used so seldom that John wonders why they have them until he remembers the people like Simon that are either too secretive or too paranoid to live without them. He grunts in frustration and bangs his fist on the door. It's silent, and John finds himself a little more frustrated.

After a few long seconds, a voice finally answers: "Yeah"?

"Cut the racket, Riley."

The thumping moves to the door.

"Cut the damn racket," John growls. He's tired, and this sure as hell isn't as cute or funny as Simon must think it is.

The door swings open and he barely catches a glimpse of the inside of the room before his lieutenant's form is blocking the door. He looks him over and almost feels bad for getting angry- Ghost looks like a sleepless mess.

But Ghost is always a sleepless mess, John reminds himself.

Simon stands there, leaning against the worn wooden door frame and fondling a tennis ball in his right hand that's gone from green to off-white with continued abuse. He thumps it once against the floor and John glares at it.

"Nice evenin', Sir. What can I do for you?" he asks impertinently, an almost smug grin spread over his lips.

"You know what you can do."

"'Fraid not. Something on the brain, ey?"

"The ball."

Simon holds it up, "This ball?"

"Aye." John's getting cross with this game already.

"Ball didn't do anything."

"Ghost, it's past midnight. Stop throwing the damn thing."

Ghost flashes a quick lopsided grin that John can only interpret as an odd gesture of self-satisfaction. The XO steps back from the door and tosses the tennis ball to his bed. Only after John's beginning to wonder if he'll be getting an affirmative answer or not, Simon wraps his hand around the neck of a bottle of scotch. "Drink for your trouble, MacTavish?"

For some reason, he can't bring himself to refuse.


	2. Chapter 2

Ghost's room is deceptively neat.

The walls are white and spotless and there isn't a scrap of clothing on the floor. The bed is made, but the pillows are scattered over it and a pistol is lying innocently on the otherwise cleared nightstand. Soap eyes the room with suspicion- It's not often that he visits anyone's room for anything other than business but for some reason, he'd expected Ghost's to be a proper mess.

The lieutenant grabs two glasses from the top of his dresser and twists the top off with his teeth. He holds the glasses steady in a single hand- they jitter and clink together and Soap now notices the trembling- and pours expertly with the other. Ghost holds them out and MacTavish takes the one on the right, swirls the liquid in the glass experimentally, and shrugs before taking a sip.

It's the good stuff. He hadn't been expecting that, either.

Ghost watches him with mild anticipation, and though it's slightly unnerving, he decides it best to think nothing of it. He relaxes after a long pause. Ghost is mid-sip when John clears his throat and speaks.

"Can't sleep?"

Ghost frowns. He thinks the answer should be obvious. "Never can."

"Insomnia's no good, Ghost."

"Could be worse," he retorts, "Could be narcoleptic."

It's the slight catch in his tone that makes John consider that he might be. Ghost laughs and he narrows his eyes.

"'Sides," Ghost continues, "Been to Doc. Asked him for something to take, you know, t'see if sleeping pills might work? Fed me a bunch of rubbish about needing natural sleep," he pauses to take a sip. "Obviously 'natural' sleep isn't working."

Soap purses his lips and stares down at his glass.

I've got no business feeling guilty over this shite, he tells himself. It has nothing to do with me.

He isn't sure how to follow up, so after a long, stiff pause, he downs another swig of liquor.

"When's the last time you had a good drink?"

John raises a brow. "What?"

"You get time for drinks often?"

"No."

"Hmn. Midnight seems a fine time to make time, yeah?"

"No." John scowls.

Ghost finds this amusing and scoffs. "Might as well make it count, then." He refills his CO's glass half-way and sets his own atop the dresser. His jittery hands almost knock it onto the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

Of course, John MacTavish had never intended to take his XO's advice when it came to midnight drinks, but for some reason, he did.  
The second time was two nights later and John had been determined to scold Ghost this time rather than join him for a damn drink, but the bastard was slippery and managed to talk him into it.

They fell into a pattern- A glass or two of gin every other night.

By the twelfth time, Ghost had bought a bottle of scotch. John reclines comfortably against his wall and finds that his lieutenant's tendency to stare no longer unnerves him.

Ghost is tossing that bloody tennis ball in the air between sips from his glass and John is nearly hypnotised watching the steady rise and fall after having perhaps a glass too many. His gaze is broken when Ghost fumbles and the ball thumps against the floor. Neither of them can be bothered to retrieve it.

"Not tired after today?" John asks.

"Not a bit."

"Damn."

Ghost's lips twist into and impudent smirk. "Bloody shame. Today was a good day."

John furrows his brows. They'd spent the better part of the day getting their asses handed to them only to get nothing out of their interrogation.

"Good?"

"Real good."

John frowns, sets his glass down, and tells him he's calling it a night. Ghost stares at his back, confused but silent. After a moment, the rhythmic thump of a ball picks back up and John clicks the door shut behind him.

Today was the first time in a long time that Ghost got to break out the cables.


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Short little chapter.

* * *

Ghost has had too much to drink, and his lips have gotten loose. John's interest is piqued.

"Drug cartel in Mexico?"

"Mmn, yup. Grim bastards. Smelled awful."

Ghost is sitting on his bed with his back to the wall and his knees drawn to his chest. He wrinkles his freckle-dotted nose in a gesture of distaste.

"Good at getting information, though. Cruel when they got it."

MacTavish raises a brow. It takes him a moment to notice that fact that Ghost's hands are even shakier than normal and he's sweating. But his lips are still set in that nearly permanent confident smirk, and his voice is steady. "How so?" he asks.

"Buried me alive." He says it so nonchalantly that John has to pause to decide if he heard it correctly.

"How the hell'd you get out of that?"

"Dug," Ghost says simply. "With a jawbone."


End file.
